Twilight (18 page)

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Authors: Brendan DuBois

BOOK: Twilight
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I rubbed my cold hands. “Then the refugees show up.”
“Exactly,” Gary said. “Thousands of people from the big city arrive … people who don't know where milk comes from, where meat comes from, where almost everything else comes from. They just know they're frightened, tired, hungry and thirsty. And there's thousands of them, on all the roads leading away from the big cities … hell, even from some of the midsize cities. And you, in this little town, you're overwhelmed. You don't know what to do. Instead of love thy neighbor, you quickly learn to ignore thy neighbor, move thy neighbor along to the other town, and, soon enough, hate thy neighbor. With cops outnumbered and the National Guard overseas,
volunteer militias spring up all across the affected areas. And then the killings begin.”
I looked at this teacher under arrest. “You actually went out and taught that? All of that?”
“Pretty stupid, huh?” he asked.
“Or pretty brave,” I said. “Though teaching the truth has often got people into trouble, over the years.”
“Ain't that right.” Gary drew his legs up and hugged his knees. “I've told you the truth as I saw it, as I taught it. Here's the other side of the coin, from the patriotic folks who've put us in these charming accommodations. It's not their fault that the bombs went off. It's not their fault that big cities couldn't protect their own. And it's not their fault that they had to organize, reach for their own weapons, when no one else could help them. They had to protect their families and their neighbors, and as rough as what happened was, they did what they could … until the dreaded UN showed up.”
“Hell of a thing, still, what happened here,” I said.
The little Christmas lights in the school bus flickered once, tossing odd shadows around the interior. Gary said, “We have a tradition here in this fine little country of settling our disputes with firearms. You being from Canada, I'm sure you're aware of that.”
“True,” I said. “It's been said that in your country you
conquered
your West. In Canada, we
negotiated
. Hey, I've got a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“I saw something painted on the side of a trailer.
Red Rules!
Saw the same sign a couple of days ago, painted on the side of a house. What does that mean?”
Gary said, “You don't know? Honestly?”
“Honestly.”
His face looked mournful now. “
Red rules
. The motto of the ruling political class. The one overruling symbol of what happened after the bombings. Ready for another lecture, student?”
I said, “We've got time, I guess. Go on.”
“All right. Look, years and years ago, when presidential elections were held the news anchors had maps that showed each state. Whenever a candidate won a state, that state would go either red or blue. Pretty soon it was almost a joke: red state versus blue state. People in one state would make jokes about the others, about them being godless fag-lovers or right-wing gun nuts. Then the smart boys who ran elections figured you could break it down even more. Red county versus blue county. But why stop there, right?”
“Sure,” I said. “Success breeds success.”
Gary nodded. “They got it down to red town versus blue town … still more insults, still more hate, still more rough words. Then the attacks … and when the people from blue cities show up in red towns, looking for food, they find well-armed red-town residents, who don't want to help. Red rules, my friend, at least around here, and don't forget it.”
“I won't.”
“OK. I answered your question. Now it's my turn.”
“Fair enough.”
He shifted his legs. “Tell me about your work here. Is it really on the up-and-up?”
“Excuse me?”
Gary shrugged. “This is a time when rumors—either on the internet or on the radio—are the most popular form of news. Rumors are that the UN crews in-country are doing more than just administering the armistice and hunting down war criminals.”
I was getting cold so I took one of the green wool blankets and wrapped it around my shoulders. “Well, everything I've done since I've been here has been on the up-and-up. My unit was investigating war crimes, that's all. We chased down leads and carried out investigations.”
“Find anything?”
“Just recently,” I said sharply. “Like I said, we ran into an Australian television crew that was later murdered. And just before I got separated from my unit one of my co-workers was shot and killed. So, yeah, you can say we've found some things.”
“Hmm,” Gary said. “But the news I heard is that most of the UN units in this area are hunting down mass graves, right? Something called Site A. There's some sort of deadline coming up at The Hague, and if that Site A is not found the New York militia commanders at The Hague will be cut loose.”
“True.”
Gary smiled. “Well, good luck, then, in finding it.”
“I don't think I'll be finding it tonight.”
“Of course. And if not you, then good luck to your comrades. I would love to see those militiamen out there get what they deserve.”
“Who wouldn't?”
Another shake of the head. “It'll take a lot of work on your part, you know. Even with the violence … people still have suspicions about you and your friends. In war, truth is the first casualty. The stories are about mass graves being chased down by nice folks like yourselves, running around in circles. Which is where the rumors start, about what some people think your real mission is.”
“And what kind of rumors are those?”
“The usual. That having you in here is payback for all the times that UN and U.S. inspection teams have gone poking around in other countries. That Russia, Iraq, Iran, China, Serbia … Well, you get the idea: all those countries love the idea of coming in here and lording it over these poor Americans. That you're actually performing intelligence-gathering, identifying National Guard or Reserve armories, as well as militia strongholds. Hell, there are even rumors in some bases the UN crews are confiscating nuclear weapons. Disarming the last world superpower—which is also a rogue nation that ignores world opinion—and finally bringing it to heel.”
“One-world government, right?”
Gary laughed. “Yeah, crazy shit like that. For fifty or so years, among the paranoia class, there's always been a fear that the UN—which most years is in debt and can't do much more than design a nice Christmas stamp—would come in and set up a one-world government under control from Geneva. Like the bureaucrats in Brussels overseeing Europe. And so here you are, a little late but running around with your blue berets and blue helmets. Hard not to understand why some people would see it like that.”
Even though I was enjoying the conversation, I was getting tired. “Look. We're not spies for one-worlders in Geneva. We're just here to help stop the killing of innocent people, and help arrest and convict those who did. That's all. And that's what I'm going to tell that militia leader the next time he interrogates me.”
“Interrogate? Really?”
“Yes,” I said. “Interrogate. Why are you surprised?”
Gary managed a weak smile. “I'm envious more than I'm surprised. That means they think you're important enough to keep around for a while. Me? Well, it's a different story.”
I pulled my blanket tighter around me. “What do you mean?”
“They already know my story, know my background. They have no interest in interrogating me. You see, Samuel, I've already been found guilty. Of treason, among other things. And the sentence for that is death.”
 
 
WE TALKED FOR
a little bit more, and then set up our sleeping arrangements. We both took a mattress and a single wool blanket, and stretched out on the soiled material. I lay there in the semi-darkness, waiting, shivering, knowing it would take an Act of God to get me to sleep this night. A few feet from me, Gary the schoolteacher lay still as well. I could not imagine what was going on in his mind this night. I had become irritated by his endless talking and lecturing earlier, wanting just to lie down and
get some sleep, but now I knew why he had been gabbing so much: he was terrified, and needed someone to talk to. That was all.
I rolled over on my mattress, heard some sounds coming from Gary. He moaned and kicked—kicked out so far, in fact, that he actually struck my mattress. I got up gingerly and moved it further toward the side wall of the school bus, near the hump where the left rear wheel was. I gasped as my fingers struck a piece of rusted metal that was sticking up from the floor. I felt my fingers but didn't feel the telltale warm stickiness of blood so I stretched out on the mattress again, pulled the musty blanket over me, and listened to Gary have his nightmares.
 
 
A NUDGE. I
woke up. Gary was standing over me. “You should come see this. Hurry up.”
I got up from my mattress, rubbed at the crust in my eyes. My mouth tasted awful and I needed to pee, but Gary's face was white with shock. “Hurry up—back here. I saw it while I was using the toilet.”
He sure had been using the toilet, for the stench was so strong that I had to breathe through my mouth. Gary said, “Take a look—over there on the left.”
The rear window of the school bus had received the same paint job as the other windows and, just as before, someone had scraped a little patch clear for a peephole. “Look,” Gary said. “Look there.”
I bent down and placed my face near the glass. I had not seen this view of the camp before. The tents were thinned out, and I could see a clump of men and what looked like an open pit. One of the men was dragged from the group by some militiamen and then forced onto his knees. I rubbed at my eyes, not wanting to see what was going to happen next but knowing full well that I
had
to see it. It was my job. No matter my circumstances or where I was, it was my job.
The man kneeling down by the pit was suddenly left alone by the militiamen. Then another guy came over, placed a pistol to the back of the kneeling man's head, and fired one shot. The man pitched forward into the hole, helped along by a kick from the gunman, and then another man was dragged over. By now I saw both victims wore uniforms, and that they were from among the prisoners who had been brought in the day before. I stepped back and stood up, not minding the stench at all now. Gary was looking at me, his face gray, his legs trembling. From outside we both heard the sharp report of another gunshot.
“Welcome to America,” Gary said.
B
reakfast was a quick opening of the door and a bag tossed into the bus. Gary and I went forward and I grabbed the bag, took out our meal for the morning: two plastic bottles of water and two plain doughnuts. We ate in silence, sitting across from each other on mattresses. When we were finished Gary said, “You married?”
“Nope.”
“Neither am I,” he said wistfully. “Was going out with a local woman, very nice. Worked in the admin office of the school district. Carol Ramirez. Oh, I miss her.”
“What happened?”
He shrugged, though it seemed as though his shoulders were weighed down with cement. “She's dead.”
“Oh. I'm sorry. The militia?”
“No,” Gary said. “Carol was in a convoy, being evacuated up north. She spoke Spanish and had volunteered to be an interpreter for this large group that had made its way up here from Spanish Harlem, if you can believe it. I wanted her to stay but no, she wanted to help out. The Canadian Red Cross had chartered some buses, and they were heading up north to Ontario. She … well, the convoy got mixed up with a militia unit. It was night. The militia unit was leaving them alone. They were all just heading north along the highway. It was night … Oh, I said that, right? Sorry.
Um, there they were and they were spotted by the intervention force. So they were bombed. A couple of aircraft—British, maybe, or even Dutch or Canadian, who knows?—did their job very well. The lead vehicle and the last one in the column were destroyed, blocking the passage of other vehicles, and then they just bombed and strafed everything else. You see, some of the militia units, they stole buses to move their forces at night, and with a couple of armored vehicles in the convoy … mistakes were made, right? In war or intervention to save lives or peacekeeping, mistakes always get made …”
I could not look at Gary, I could not look at that weary face. I just murmured “sorry” again, and cleaned up the remains of our little breakfast. Then I went to the rear of the bus to use the chemical toilet. The stench was back, even worse than before, and I wished that I could open a window or do something, anything, to get some fresh air into this little prison. I risked another look out the rear window, saw that the group of men had dispersed, though one man was still at the pit, shoveling in dirt and white powder from large paper sacks. Quicklime, to aid in the decomposition of the dead. But why bury the bodies here, so close to their base camp? Why?
Because it made sense, that was why. To keep on hiding the evidence, the evidence that something horrible was happening here.
As I came back into the main body of the bus, I saw that the front door had opened and two militiamen were standing there, pistols in their hands, looking at me and at Gary. We both stood there, silent, both of us wondering, I'm sure, who was being summoned. But at least we didn't have long to wait.
The lead militiaman looked straight at me. He needed a shave. He motioned with the pistol. “UN man, your turn.”
 
 
SAME TRAILER, SAME
room, same interrogator and two militiamen behind me. The bearded man who called himself Colonel Saunders. He was sipping from a mug of coffee, and he looked up at me as I sat down.
“Coffee?”
“No,” I said.
“Freshly made.”
“That's fine. I don't want any.”
Saunders said, “You could be a bit more gracious, Samuel.”
“Tell you what: you set me free, you let me get back to a UN unit, and I'll send you a thank-you note.”
The colonel grinned, not a very pleasing sight. “That might be a problem.
There seem to be fewer and fewer of you UN folks in-country with every passing day.”
I was going to say something sharp back to him, about what I had seen earlier that morning—the killing of the prisoners—but I stopped myself just in time. I wasn't supposed to have been looking out of the school bus. I wasn't supposed to have seen anything going on. Not a thing. But still …
“I heard some gunshots this morning, toward the rear of the school bus,” I asked. “Target practice?”
One of the two guards behind me chuckled and I felt nauseous, that the thought of killing bound men on their knees would cause such humor. Saunders raised his coffee mug. “Target practice. Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
He put the mug down, picked up a pen and a legal pad. “This is going to be your second interrogation, Samuel. And your last. Do you understand? I want to hear some better answers from you today, or it's not going to end well for you. Do I make myself clear?”
I clasped my hands, not wanting Saunders to see them shake. “Yes, you make yourself clear.”
“Good. Let's begin.”
And he did, right from the beginning. Name, age, address, occupation. How long had I been in the United States? What were my political views?
I hesitated on that one. “I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.”
“I said, what's your politics? How did you vote? Liberal or Conservative?”
“Moderate, I guess.”
Saunders glared. “Not a good answer.”
“Well, that's what we have up in Canada. Mostly moderate parties.”
“And which one have you supported?”
I looked at him and lied. “The Conservative Party, of course.”
There was a pause, and then he wrote something down on the pad. I tried to keep my expression as neutral as possible. The party I usually vote for is the Liberal Party, but I didn't want to use that loaded adjective—liberal—with these armed men. And since they were typical Americans, I'm sure they didn't know one Canadian political party from another. Hell, for all I knew, they probably thought Bloc Quebecois was run from Paris.
“Let's talk about your training,” Saunders said.
“All right.”
“What kind of weapons training did you receive?”
“I'm sorry, I don't understand the question.”
He glared at me again. “Weapons training. Did you receive qualifications for handling pistols, semi-auto rifles, explosives?”
I laughed. “Of course not!”
He raised an eyebrow, and I gasped as someone slapped the back of my head. Saunders said, “The question wasn't a joke, Samuel. So here we go again. What kind of weapons training did you receive?”
The back of my head was still stinging, but I kept my hands still, not wanting to give my captors back there any satisfaction. “All right,” I said. “No joking. I received no weapons training.”
“None?”
“None,” I said.
“You're telling me you don't know how to use a firearm, of any kind?” Saunders asked.
“No, I didn't say that,” I said.
“Hmm,” he said, a hint of triumph in his tone. “Tell me what you're qualified with, then.”
I felt the impulse to laugh again, but this time I kept it under control. “I've fired a .22 caliber bolt-action rifle a few times, back when I was a youngster. I'm not sure of the make or model. I also fired a bolt-action .308 once or twice, when I was twelve. My father wanted me to learn how to hunt deer with him. The lesson didn't take. I've also fired a pistol a few times, as part of a story I was working on in Toronto.”
Saunders didn't look as triumphant. “I think you're lying.”
“I'm sorry, but I'm not responsible for what you're thinking. I'm telling you the truth. That's all I know.”
“Then weapons-identification training. You've certainly received that, haven't you?”
“Identification of what?”
“Armored vehicles, artillery pieces, mortars. How to recognize them in the field.”
I shook my head. “No. The only training I received was the use of my recording gear, some basic first aid, some tips on working in a hostile environment and the protocol of working with an investigative unit.”
Saunders scrawled some more. “Your investigative unit. Who was there?”
“Forensic pathologists, former police detectives, medical experts.”
“Any military units?”
“One Marine escort, supplied under the terms of the armistice.”
A voice muttered behind me, “Fucking traitor …”
“I want names, please.”
I thought of Charlie and Karen, both American citizens, both serving the UN and now considered traitors by the militia. “No, I can't tell you that.”
Saunders looked up. “That's not a request. It's an order.”
“I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't work for you. I'm not a member of your militia. I'm not even a citizen of this country.”
“Shut up,” Saunders said.
But I got up and approached his desk. “And I'm here under the authority of Security Council Resolution—”
I was going to go on and give the resolution number, and mention how many congressmen and senators from his own country welcomed our intervention, as well as how most of the major newspapers and media outlets had managed to get back to work after the attacks. But my plan was interrupted when the two men toward the rear pulled me down and started kicking and punching me.
This time it went on for a long while.
 
 
WHEN THEY WERE
done, I was half-dragged, half-carried back to the school bus, where the militiamen dumped me on the steps leading up to the interior. Gary the schoolteacher was there and he helped me up inside, where I lay down on one of the mattresses. “Jesus Christ,” Gary whispered. “They sure as hell worked you over.”
“You … you should see the other guys,” I managed to say.
Gary tried to let some water dribble into my mouth, and I winced as the cold liquid struck my lips. “Why? Did you get some punches in?” he asked.
“Not hardly,” I said, trying not to cough. “But I do think I managed to stain some of their boots with my blood.”
That got a laugh from Gary, and he tried to give me some more water, which this time I was at least able to swallow. He said, “They brought in another lunch. I could give you some of the bread, if I soften it with some water.”
“OK.”
He rustled around in a plastic shopping bag. “There's some soft cheese, which should be all right for eating, even with a sore mouth. You up to eating?”
I closed my eyes, wanting to just sit there, just lie on the softness of the mattress, no matter how soiled and stained. “No, not yet. I just want to stay here. How about you?”
“Oh, I'll wait,” Gary said. “I'll wait. Any particular reason they beat on you, or are they just in a foul mood?”
“I guess they didn't like my answers to their questions,” I said, keeping my eyes closed.
“Uh-huh,” he said. “What kind of questions were they asking you?”
“Crazy stuff, about weapons training, about identifying makes and types of military vehicles, my politics …”
“And did you answer them?”
I coughed, feeling blood and spittle drool down my chin. “Yeah—but I didn't give any names.”
Gary didn't say anything. I opened my eyes. He sat there, once more with his arms folded around his knees. He said, “Samuel, you saw what happened this morning, didn't you? You saw those prisoners get shot, right?”
I let my tongue move gingerly around my teeth. “I've just spent the morning with a bunch of thugs who think I'm an idiot … please don't insult me by saying the same thing …”
“I'm not insulting you. I'm telling you what's up. And what's up is that these guys are playing for keeps. Shit, there's a whole frigging pit full of dead people over there that shows just how real they are. So tell them what they want to hear.”
I coughed up some blood again. “But I don't have anything to tell them … Christ, I told them everything, except the names of my colleagues …”
Gary said, “Tell them a story, then. Anything to stop the beatings.”
I rolled over, trying to ease the pain in the ribs on my left side. “I'm sorry. I can't do that.”
“Then you should try. It'd be for the best. If you confirm what they believe … well, they might go easy on you.”
“And what do you think they believe?”
Gary looked over at the far bulkhead of the school bus. “They believe they've been wronged. They believe this country has done so much for the world and hasn't been appreciated. And when bad times happened … you folks took advantage of us. Of course, we're not the same country any more. For the first time in nearly two hundred years we have foreign troops on our soil. We're still in shock because of having our first city attacked with an atomic device and because of the other atomic devices that were exploded over our territory and that temporarily knocked us back to the nineteenth century. So when the UN is crawling around the countryside, reporting to who knows who, and some of these UN inspectors—we know for a fact—are ex-military or ex-intelligence from their countries of origin, it's not hard to believe that they're doing more than just setting up tent cities and stopping the shooting and investigating war crimes.”

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